Three Mile Drove, Prologue
by Brian Cross
Summary: The opening sequence of a chiller set in isolated farmland in the English Fens.


THREE MILE DROVE

PROLOGUE

The washing machine ground through its task with a tumult more akin to a pneumatic drill, driving mental rivets into Myra Bentley's besieged head as she struggled with the assortment of pots and pans cluttering the sink.

Somewhere outside, on a cool October day her daughter Emma was playing. Myra had wrapped her warmly with a warning not to stray, because when she'd finally finished her never ending chores she would make Sunday lunch.

She turned in annoyance to the washing machine. The bloody noise seemed to be getting louder. There was no doubt that the age old machine was going to blow soon, where would she find the money to replace it?

A surge of anger took her back in time, cursing the day she'd met Bob Freeman, her common law husband. It was ironic that now she couldn't understand what she'd first seen in him. He had been an overweight, work-shy slob, had been and always would be. It was a year to this very day that he'd walked out and she'd discovered that he'd left her with a mountain of bills that resembled a scale model of Mount Snowdon, with no prospect of getting back on her feet.

Oh the bloody machine was so noisy she felt she could physically demolish it!

She should have been able to see her daughter playing on the flat area of dark soil that seemed to unfold like a drab, black carpet from the kitchen window; she might perhaps have heard her footsteps on the makeshift gravel path that bordered it.

2

She might even have heard the brief, pathetic scream that broke the air for a second before dying wretchedly away, and if she had been outside she would certainly have smelled the nauseating, acrid stench that swept across the isolated yard in permeating waves.

That she experienced none of these things was due to the gathering variety of problems which enclosed her like a mental strait-jacket.

Only later, when she wearily called Emma in for lunch, did Myra Bentley realise that something was very wrong.

Detective Sergeant Tim McPherson had been about to leave his office on one of his all too rare half days when a fax message was placed on his desk. He muttered beneath his breath as he scanned through it.

Several weeks ago, a girl aged seven years had disappeared, presumed abducted. Despite widespread investigations and enquiries so far nothing had sprung to light, but without fail, at least twice a week a report like this would come in. A girl fitting the missing child's description had been seen, this time apparently on a remote fenland road known as Three Mile Drove. McPherson was certain he was embarking on another wild goose chase. It seemed to him that these reported sightings were derived solely to intrude into his limited free time. After all, how many seven year old girls sporting a brown pony tail and wearing white ankle socks were there?

3

But each new sighting required investigation, and apparently by him. Not for the first time McPherson wondered what the rest of the crew were up to. He rose from his desk and left Ely police station, his mood matching the rapidly deteriorating weather.

The rain was splashing across his windscreen in angry waves by the time McPherson entered the drove. At its best, this area was desolate. At its worst, as of now, it became a living nightmare, like an untimely introduction to an alien planet.

Some distance along the drove he stopped, pulled into a boggy recess in the rain swamped road, the kind constructed to allow approaching vehicles to pass.

One single, bare willow stood out like a forlorn and reluctant Lone Ranger, vainly shielding a nineteenth-century farmhouse that looked as though it might better be served as a storehouse.

But this location matched the reported sighting, and it was to the run down, red brick house that he was headed.

McPherson left his car, hurrying through the clotted dirt and gravel that filtered like treacle across his ankles, cursing that he'd not thought to bring his Wellington boots.

Reaching the boundary his feet sank into the un-ploughed field that served as a front garden, and he wondered for the umpteenth time why he'd chosen to be a detective rather than the career in journalism that had been his teenage aim.

McPherson sighed as he approached the house, wondering why he'd ever considered trying to find a bell. There wasn't one but why should there be? After all, you wouldn't expect to find a red carpet at the entrance to a pig sty.

4

He received no answer despite several heavy thumps on the door before losing patience he trudged through muck and slime round to the side, where a disintegrating wooden door stood ajar.

He hesitated for a moment before rocking back, his hand suddenly clasped tightly over his face. Already he could smell a stench, a stench that defied positive description. He could only define it as a nauseating mixture of vomit, urine, stale faeces and dried blood blended into one stomach ripping concoction.

McPherson gathered and held what little breathe he could before lunging blindly into the house, loosely termed as he soon found out. His stomach wrenched and heaved, eyes watering so severely he could hardly see as he struggled to cast his eyes around the room.

There, by the sink of what served as a kitchen, amidst rotting waste that might consist of countless ingredients lay a scattering of bones, beside which stood four of the most grotesque children McPherson had ever laid eyes upon.


End file.
